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      May 21, 2012The Street of the CellistGeri Rosenzweig

      for Dan

      When at last
      you find the street of the cellist,
      may the dread
      that accompanied you
      fall by the way,
      may the yellow hive
      of her window direct you
      to the garden
      where the russet tint
      of alders keep
      for all time her three
      stone sundials in their shade.
      Don’t worry
      if the thumbprint
      of oil placed
      on your forehead trembles
      at the pallor of her hair,
      in the layered
      softness of snow falling
      on your shoulders,
      in the hum of zero
      sounding your arrival,
      listen for notes
      drawn slow from the tattered
      libretto of your life.

      from #28 - Winter 2007

      Geri Rosenzweig, RN

      “I had a short term memory problem back in the days when such defects were only guessed at. Much to the amazement of friends and teachers, I could memorize poems without difficulty and recite them back in class. I believe it was the pleasure my brain took in the cadence, the music, the lilt of language when I was a child that makes me write poems, plus the freedom I feel when writing. For me, poetry is the only way I make sense of this life.”

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